When Church became Mass

All this 'going to church' in the week has really been good in terms of 'getting me out the house'. The weather is good and because its around the same time and human's being creatures of habit, I'm noticing the Turkish barbers are always on their Lambert and Butlers, the butchers always on their brooms and there's more than a few big men clipped to creatures they firmly believe is a dog. I suppose they'll have noticed me in the same way although they'd never guess I was going to church. That I am sure. 

Quite why I kept going in the week is something which, on reflection, I felt I ought. The church itself as a building has started to bring me so much peace. And like I say, it gets me out. 

The effect of Sunday when the roof seemed to disappear has been turned over and over in my mind and then it did eventually dawn on me, its not that we were going up. Rather, God was coming down, to us all. I felt that and further realisation that such a revelation wouldn't be news to the rest of them. Old news perhaps. I've clearly got a long way to go. 

"..its not that we were going up. Rather, God was coming down, to us all."

Today I had a lot on my mind and was I guess, just zoning out but still thinking about God and everything, just not actively praying as such. Obviously I am and still feel new there. A sense which is highlighted by the fact I don't know and can't always even distinguish the words. 

In the past I'd always watched the vicars. Or as they are called here, priests. There appears to be three here.  The black man, the main man and another fellow with a sparse beard who I call Father Matthew. I know he isn't Father Matthew and that's not his name but I'm pretty sure that he's the vicar I asked for when my Nan was about to die. He talked to me about her ability to be able to instil love in another and said there would be a special place in heaven for her because she's passed on the ability to love. 

I suppose he didn't realise I could cope with scripture. 

Father Matthew, the actual Father Matthew has supposedly moved to Scunthorpe. Which is interesting because its where we held my Nan's cremation. An early morning service, 8 am in fact. No one present, just myself and my housemate Stickers who had helped and cared so much for my Nan. 

Initially I was a bit concerned due to their being no vicar but as someone pointed out to me,

"The fact you haven't given the council an extra £1400 isn't going to stop your Nan getting heaven"

They were right of course. Ours, and everyone else's goodbyes were said at the Methodist church some weeks before. This was just dealing with the body, so to speak. I'd brought her in the back of the car in her 13 inch wide coffin and we wheeled her in. 

You know, I don't regret a moment of that I thought it was a great way to deal with things. Pretty unconventional admittedly but certainly far better. 

That just reminds me, because I had my Nan at home, I did have a copy of the Last Rites that I collected from a friend of mine in the Lords. It was all olde English and I just thought I'd better do something more formal than the Lord's Prayer should she be dying before my very eyes. 

"In the end I told her she was going to see Bill and I thanked her for teaching me to read."

The visit from so called Father Matthew came before she died, if I recall although its not a strong memory.  The same Father Matthew who I've seen in the Arboretum many times. Sometimes I look at him in the service, he doesn't seem to do much really. I keep trying to think, was that him? Perhaps if I got closer the memory might awaken. 

So there I was head in hands, at peace but not really engaged with the service. Truthfully I was really looking forward to the communion and was sure to get what I will always now maintain as the best seat in the house. 

Quite how this came about I don't know but I sort of saw the three of them, objectively and at the same time, all together. How well they worked, the three of them, one holding the book, another wiping the wine. 

'It was more of a complete ceremony and I thought "this is Mass"'

I'd heard people say, 'oh you've been to Mass.' The only Mass I'd ever heard of was Midnight Mass really. I was quite simply going to church, let's not get pretentious about it. 

Speaking of pretence, I watched the three of them up there, solemn as you like, going through the motions, every move perfectly choreographed. They had a green theme and it was wonderful to watch as a piece of theatre. A routine to learn and examine. 

Perhaps because its Tuesday but the black man who I must call Father Patrick, I really must call him that, he sang and the organ started and the sound was simply wonderful. 

Such an uplifting experience and I felt so different about what I can now call Mass because that is precisely what it is. 

I used to go to church and now I go to Mass. Its that different.